


What Do You See?

by dragonwrangler



Series: The Magnificent Samurai [1]
Category: Samurai 7
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwrangler/pseuds/dragonwrangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shichiroji faces the truth of his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Do You See?

Shichiroji swung the yari down from the right at his imaginary opponent, stopping the motion before the blades struck the wooden floor. He then took a step forward, his bare feet carefully placed to keep his body balanced as he swung the long weapon up over his left shoulder then back out and around in a cross strike, his hands repositioning themselves on the weapon to keep an even momentum.

He could feel the muscles of his back as they strained to keep the yari under control as he moved through his exercise, could feel the flex of the wooden shaft in his hands every time he changed the direction of the blades, and the way his body countered that flex by letting it flow through his arms and into his upper body so that the bowing shaft never came close to the point of breaking— in combat or in practice.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift as he took another step and moved through another attack. He listened to the sound of his feet against the floor, and couldn’t help stepping into an old familiar rhythm. He knew the purpose of the exercise was to shift his mind into that state where he no longer existed, where he was only an extension of the weapon in his hand and nothing else; but the weapon in his hand had long ago become a part of him, and he couldn’t stop his body from flowing into the music he heard, or stop himself from singing the ancient words that accompanied it.

The words, and the music, were as much a part of him as the yari, and they flowed out into the weapon, his motions becoming effortless and smooth as the warrior and the poet joined and became one.

Shichiroji’s voice remained strong, despite the strain on his lungs as he pushed his body to its limit and swept the blades close to his body as he blocked an imagined attack from behind. Even with his eyes closed though, he knew where the blades were and knew there was no danger of injury as he twisted and turned and brought the yari back up to make an attack of his own.

The beat of the song and his heart, the formality of his motions as he moved through the steps of the yari’s familiar dance and sound of his voice as it vibrated through the air, took his mind to that state that he had been reaching for; Shichiroji ceased to exist; there was only the song and the yari and nothing in the world could touch him.

As he reached the end of the exercise, he let the song slowly fade, the words floating out into the air as he danced the last steps. He feet settled into the final position and the blades of the yari came to rest as his body became as still as his mind.

He held the stillness for several moments as his mind slowly returned to an awareness of the present, but as it did Shichiroji realized that someone had moved up behind and to the right of where he stood without him knowing it. He moved without thought, the yari coming up from its resting position into an arc that abruptly stopped a hair’s breath away from cutting into the throat of the man standing behind him.

_Oh shit, I’m dead,_ Shichiroji thought when he realized whom he had just taken a swing at.

But the green-eyed man merely smiled and said, “Interesting use of that song, Shichiroji.” A silver hand reached up and gently took the yari out of Shichiroji’s suddenly nerveless fingers, leaving Shichiroji with no idea what he was supposed to do next.

Throwing himself to the mercy of the god seemed like a good idea though.

Dropping to his knees, Shichiroji sputtered, “My Lord Nuada, I…”

He heard a thunk as the blunt end of the yari struck the floor. “Shichiroji, I‘m not going to snap your head off just for taking a swing at me. Will you get up so I can talk to your face instead of the back of your head?”

As he cautiously did as he was told, Nuada held out the yari. “If I didn’t trust your abilities I wouldn’t have gotten so close,” he said, “though next time I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get quite so close, Shichiroji.”

Shichiroji blushed slightly as he took the yari back. “Yes, my Lord.”

Nuada shook his head, and Shichiroji wasn’t quite sure if it was in amusement or annoyance, as he pointed out, “And there’s no need for the ‘my Lord’ line; I haven’t been the leader of the Tuatha in more generations of your people than I care to count. I’d rather you just called me Nuada.” He gave Shichiroji a sharp look. “If I remember correctly, I already mentioned that to you.”

“You did.” Shichiroji admitted. “But almost taking the head off of your patron god while he’s in his human form seemed like an appropriate time to use a more formal form of address.”

Nuada chuckled. “All right, I’ll give you that one, bard.” As the god turned to regard the room Shichiroji had been practicing in, Shichiroji tried not to shift around nervously; he had not been under Nuada’s tutelage long enough to know exactly how he was supposed to act around the god, but he did know enough to realize that this was far from a casual visit.

“How much longer will you be staying here?” Nuada asked casually as he turned back to face Shichiroji.

“I can leave any time. My training is complete.”

“If your training is complete, then why are you still here?”

Shichiroji frowned as he considered the question. He honestly wasn’t sure why he had not moved on to fulfill his new duties as a bard. No, if he was truthful with himself, he did know why. He was afraid. His hand unconsciously drifted to his right hip, absently rubbing the spot the tattoo of the promise flower had appeared on his skin one day when he was a child.

He had had dreams lately that disturbed him— and two that had shaken him to the core. As his mind skittered away from thinking about the dreams, Nuada suddenly caught Shichiroji’s left hand, the one that had been rubbing the tattoo, and held it so that his hand was forced open and his palm was facing up.

“What have you seen, Shichiroji?” Nuada asked in a gentle but implacable tone.

Shichiroji stared at the hand held by Nuada’s silver one, and felt the terror of one of the dreams rip away the calm he had achieved a moment ago. His fingers twitched as his heart began to pound with the need to get away from the memory, even though there was no way to escape its presence in his head.

He tried to take a step back anyway, a low moan clenching his throat, but he was stopped when Nuada grabbed the back of his head and forced him to meet his gaze.

“They’re just dreams.” Shichiroji whispered desperately.

“Bards, unfortunately, do not have ‘just dreams’, Shichiroji’.” Nuada replied. “What did you see?”

“No…” Shichiroji wanted to shake his head, wanted to look away, but Nuada held him in place.

“There is always a price that must be paid for the balance to remain intact.” Nuada said softly, the words knifing through Shichiroji’s body to cut the dream loose. It flooded his awareness and he remembered the blood and anguish and terror that stained the land of a home that he barely remembered now; and he experienced once again the terrifying loss that the dream prophesized.

Shichiroji was unaware he had collapsed until he felt Nuada’s cool metal hand against his forehead and a strong arm around his shaking body. Nuada’s voice rose and fell in a wordless song, slowly drawing Shichiroji back to a point of wavering calm. As the terror slowly receded, Nuada asked again, “What did you see, bard?”

“I saw…” Shichiroji had to stop, his voice painfully raw in his throat. Nuada wrapped both arms around him, grounding him and giving him the strength to continue.

“I saw a war shattering the homelands,” he said as quickly as he could, “and a darkness that swallowed up the old ways and scattered the clans to the four winds.”

He felt Nuada nod. “That has already begun.”

“What?” He twisted slightly to look up questioningly at Nuada.

Instead of answering Shichiroji’s question, the god asked, “What happened to your hand in this dream, Shichiroji?”

Looking away from the compassion in Nuada’s green eyes, Shichiroji realized he had curled his body protectively around his left arm even as he was being held. Tremors ran under the surface of his brittle calm but they grew still when Nuada sighed and said, “Your music is not in your hands, Shichiroji. You will not lose it if you lose the hand.”

“But…”

“What else did you see?” Nuada interrupted sharply.

Closing his eyes, Shichiroji forced his mind away from the first dream and into the second. Though parts were just as terrifying to him as the first, there had been something hidden in the dream that had supported Shichiroji whenever he faltered.

“Ripples in deep water, forming currents that will bring the end of what is familiar, and fire and magic trying to burn the currents to a standstill.”

“Should not the currents be stopped if they bring an end to what is familiar?” Nuada asked.

Shichiroji shook his head and answered in a voice that was somehow detached from the fear that he felt. “The currents turn the wheel of time, if the currents are stopped, if the wheel fails to turn, the world would come to an end.” Speaking of the dreams aloud, Shichiroji realized that the two were connected, that the darkness that would destroy the land where he was a boy would continue until it eradicated everything-- or until it could be stopped.

Curling tighter into himself, Shichiroji pressed the side of his face against Nuada’s reassuringly firm shoulder as the dreams crashed inside him, tearing away whatever hope he had of avoiding his fate. He could see clearly, in his mind’s eye, the battle that would steal his ability to make the music that lived within him, could feel his own terror and the strike of the crossbow bolt that would shatter his bone and lead to the burning infection that would force him to lose his arm.

And when it did happen, he knew now he would not even try to avoid the strike, for he could see, safe in Nuada’s arms, what he had been unable to perceive past the terror of that moment in the dream— he could see what it was he was protecting. Children of the clan, too young to defend themselves, trapped between the darkness and hope; to save himself, he realized, he would need to sacrifice them to avoid the fate the dream foretold.

If he allowed that to happen, if he allowed the children to die, then he would be able to keep his arm but he would lose the music forever, for the music would never forgive such an act; and that loss would kill him just as swiftly and as effectively as a sword to the heart.

The second dream seemed to come alive as Shichiroji accepted that essential fact. It touched the unstable power he had occasionally sensed around the tattoo but had never been able to touch, awakening it and sending it bursting outward. Stunned by the power flaring around him, Shichiroji could only stared in wonder as Nuada calmly reigned in the wild magic; holding it in place with his voice until it settled protectively around Shichiroji.

Blinking up in surprise, startled by the magic tickling his skin, Shichiroji managed to find his voice to ask, “What‘s going on?” He held out his hand, the magic shifting along his body in patterns of brilliant greens and blues with each movement he made.

“What do you see?” Nuada asked quietly.

Shichiroji stared at his hand and at the magic, and shivered when the magic suddenly went black and cold, dusting his skin like soot from a fire. Instinctively, Shichiroji turned his hand so that the palm was once again face up towards the sky. He stretched his hand out, the dream overwhelming his vision.

It was dark, rain was chilling him to the bone, there was blood soaking the ground— his own and those he cared for— and it seemed so easy to give up and let the darkness overwhelm him. However, there was someone reaching out to pull him to his feet, someone who was warm and familiar and who shimmered with the same magic that had just been moving over Shichiroji.

Before the figure could grab Shichiroji’s hand, the magic resting black against his skin flared a sickly red, biting down into his flesh and sending waves of agony through his blood. The terror flashed back into Shichiroji’s mind, grabbing him by the throat as the magic within him tried to turn on the man reaching out to him.

Shichiroji howled, the conflict within him ripping at his soul as he fought the magic. He would not allow the magic to harm the man even if it killed him, and he could feel the magic straining against his hold, stealing his life— when the stranger suddenly caught him in an unshakable embrace and let the magic take him.

_“NO!”_

“Shichiroji.”

The name and the voice cut through the dream, snapping Shichiroji back to the present. Sobbing, his chest so tight with grief and sorrow that he could barely breathe, Shichiroji forced his eyes open and found a lap harp sitting inexplicably before him.

For a moment, Shichiroji believed he was still in the dream as he gazed through his tears at the beautiful instrument, until Nuada spoke.

“The harp is real. It has been waiting for you.”

Shichiroji stared at the intricate carvings on the body of the harp, his heart beating hard and fast from all the emotions coursing through him, and he leaned away from Nuada to touch the carving of the silver Salmon of Knowledge leaping through the darkness of the harp’s wooden frame. The harp made a mellow, soothing chime when his fingers touched it and Shichiroji was unable to stop a cry of despair from slipping out as he quickly pulled his hand away.

“I can‘t!” Shichiroji said, closing his eyes to block out the sight of the harp as he cradled his left arm against his body. He heard a mournful chord from the harp. “Please,” he whispered, “you need to find another.”

There was anger in the notes the harp played next, and Shichiroji snapped his eyes open in confusion. He looked at the harp, which seemed to be berating him with several sharp, high notes, and then turned to Nuada.

“It‘s talking,” he said, confusion tangling his thoughts.

“Of course. It is a harp of the Tuatha de Danann.”

Shichiroji slumped against Nuada and turned away. “Then it is definitely not for me.”

“The harp belongs to the one who stays true to himself and his music. Your dreams have shown you what will be and what might yet be. You have made up your mind as to what path you will follow, Shichiroji. You now know what the cost will be and you have accepted that. You refuse to turn away and you will guide and protect those who are destined to face the darkness that is coming even if it cost you your soul.”

“The harp is yours.” A low chuckle slipped out of Nuada as Shichiroji opened his eyes to gaze at the harp. “And it is best not to argue with a harp.” Nuada added. “They can be as stubborn as some bards that I know.”

The harp gave an irritated twang at the comment, and Shichiroji laughed. It was painful to laugh but it eased some of the tightness around his heart. He reached out and patted the top of the harp lightly. “Just ignore him,” he said, “he’s just being a pain.”

Sighing, Shichiroji turned around to face Nuada fully. He swallowed, and then admitted, “I’m afraid I’m not as brave as you think I am.”

Nuada shook his head and climbed to his feet. “Do not doubt yourself.” He pulled Shichiroji upright and studied him a moment.

“The harp would not have come to you if you had not the strength to face your fear. You can and will do what is necessary. I trust you, you will not disappoint me.”

Shichiroji nodded, though doubt did shadow his thoughts. Looking behind him, he asked, “What is the harps name?”

“That is for you to decide.” Shichiroji gave Nuada a surprised look, and the god said, “No one has ever been able to call it. It has been waiting for you, and to you goes the honor of naming it.”

Shichiroji shook his head. “No pressure then.”

Nuada smiled. “I’m sure the harp will let you know if you’ve gotten it wrong.” As Shichiroji nodded, Nuada asked, “Will you be all right?”

“No,” Shichiroji responded as he met Nuada’s gaze. “But I will survive. I will leave tomorrow and return home to begin my duties. And I will let fate decide what I will do next.”

Nuada nodded and clasped Shichiroji’s shoulder, and then he turned— and was gone.

It was a moment before Shichiroji found the energy to move, and all he did was step back to the harp and sit down beside it. He reached out and once again touched the Salmon of Knowledge. The harp stayed silent, but Shichiroji could hear the voice of the harp in his mind and smiled.

Leaning sideways, he caught the end of his yari and pulled it to him. He set the long weapon across his lap and said, “Harp, yari; yari, harp. I expect to two to get along, otherwise it‘s going to be a long trip.”

The harp let out an amused progression of chords and Shichiroji had to smile again. He still wasn’t sure if he was as brave as Nuada believed, but he knew better than to fight fate.

And maybe one day he would see the man who had reached out to him— see him and save him from the darkness that threatened to claim them all.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a non-commercial work of fiction based on the anime/manga Samurai 7. Original copyright of Samurai 7 belongs to Akira Kurosawa, Shinobu Hashimoto, Hideo Oguni, MICO, GDH, GONZO. The original character of Nuada Airgedlàmb in this fic is the property of dragonwrangler/K. J. Raeside. No profit is being made from this fanfic.
> 
> First posted on Livejournal on May 1, 2007


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